


Hammered and Nailed

by squadrickchestopher



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Amputee Bucky Barnes, Anal Sex, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Crymax, Drunken Shenanigans, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Outdoor Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink, carpentry, competent clint barton
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-12 02:28:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29502708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squadrickchestopher/pseuds/squadrickchestopher
Summary: “Clint,” Bucky says, drawing his eyes back up. There’s a tiny smirk on his face, and Clint suddenly has the sinking feeling that he knows what Clint is thinking.Not that he’s really hiding it—it’s pretty fucking obvious what’s going on. He might as well have a neon sign above his head blaringFUCK ME.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Comments: 22
Kudos: 194





	Hammered and Nailed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bookworm1295](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookworm1295/gifts).



> For Bookworm1295. Hope I hit the right boxes for you!
> 
> Not beta'ed, all mistakes are mine and you can't have them

“Tasha,” Clint says as soon as she answers the phone. “I have a problem.”

“What?”

“New neighbor moved in today.” He doesn’t have to clarify which house—they’re the only two on this road, him and the new guy. Clint bought this place for a reason.

“And?”

“And he’s really, _really_ hot.”

He can almost hear her rolling her eyes through the phone. “Clint, it’s midnight.”

“It’s four in the afternoon, Tash.”

“I’m in _Russia_.”

“What? Since when?”

“Remembered two days ago when I walked into your house, said, ‘I’m leaving on a mission, I’ll be back later,’ and walked back out? It was right after that.”

“Oh.” Clint cracks open a beer and puts his feet up on the porch railing, wincing at the creak of the wood. “If you retired, you could be here with me, staring at the new neighbor and his cat.”

“I don’t like cats.”

“You’re such a fucking liar, you love cats.”

“Know what else I love? Sleeping.”

“You weren’t sleeping, you were cleaning your gun.” There’s a moment of silence that tells Clint he’s right, and he grins. “You want a picture of him? I could probably send you a picture of him.”

“Don’t take stalker pictures of the neighbors, Barton. Go over and introduce yourself.”

“That would involve socializing,” Clint says. “I’m just going to admire from a distance.”

“I’m going to bed now.”

“Don’t be mad at me. You didn’t have to answer the phone.”

“Call me again at midnight, and I’m throwing your souvenir away.”

Clint gasps dramatically. “You wouldn’t _dare_.”

“Good night, Barton.”

“Night, Tash.”

He hangs up and watches the neighbor walk towards the end of the driveway. It’s only then that he notices that Hot Neighbor has only one arm, which is really the least interesting thing about him. He’s also got stubble that Clint can see from here, and fantastically attractive hair, and a certain way of walking that’s doing very pleasant things to Clint’s spine. He never thought he’d be into something like that, but the way this guy moves just hits all kinds of buttons for Clint.

Hot Neighbor picks up the newspaper at the end of the driveway, then glances up at Clint. His eyes narrow, and his face very clearly says _the fuck are you looking at?_

Clint lifts his beer in a salute. “Hi,” he calls, because despite his remarks to Tasha, he is actually a fairly sociable person when it’s needed. He just chooses not to be most days.

The man scowls at him, then turns and goes back inside his house, whistling for his cat to follow.

“Rude,” Clint says, and sips his beer.

* * *

Hot Neighbor apparently has only one truckful of things to move in. Clint is making margaritas, so he watches with interest through his kitchen window as a very tall, very blond man helps unload the boxes. Afterwards, they shake hands, and the truck drives off. Hot Neighbor stares down the road after it, looking slightly forlorn and Clint thinks about going out to offer him a drink. He’s actually reaching for the door when Hot Neighbor shakes his head, then turns and goes back into his own house, slamming the door. So Clint drinks both margaritas, gets a little drunk, and texts Natasha.

CB: Hot Neighbor has no furniture

CB: do I offer him some

CB: is this neighborly

NR: Are you drunk?

CB: what is this an interrogation

CB: i made margaritas

CB: help me tash do I give him my couch or not

CB: or a lawn chair or something

NR: He is an adult, Clint. He can buy his own furniture.

CB: okay

CB: gonna bake him a welcome cake tho

NR: How drunk are you?

CB: mind your own bees

NR: For fucks sake.

NR: If you finished all my vodka, I’ll kill you.

CB: jesus christ could you BE any more russian

She doesn’t respond to that, which…fair. Clint shrugs and sets his phone down, then sets about making a cake. Except he doesn’t enough flour, or eggs, or any of the other shit that he probably needs to bake anything. He doesn’t really have food at all, honestly. He should go shopping. Maybe after he meets Hot Neighbor.

“Can you order cake?” Clint asks Lucky, who’s just laying on his dog bed and silently judging Clint. “Like, is that a thing? Grubhub for cake?”

Lucky barks at him, which doesn’t help. Clint just sighs and digs around in his fridge. “Could make fudge,” he says. “Or—no—here!” He pulls out a bottle of blueberry pie beer, then frowns at it. “No. That’s not right.”

He ends up making pancakes from a mix, then stacks a bunch on a plate and covers them with tinfoil. It takes him a few tries to navigate his broken front steps, but he manages without dropping anything. He knocks on Hot Neighbor’s door with enthusiasm, then tries to tone it down a little bit.

_Probably should’ve gone easier on the tequila,_ he thinks, holding the railing for balance, and knocks again.

“I’m coming!” comes an irate yell, and Clint realizes he just knocked three times in the span of thirty seconds. Oops.

“Sorry,” he calls back, and then the door is opening, and Clint is face-to-face with Hot Neighbor. Who is even more hot up close. _So_ hot. Face-meltingly hot. Like, Clint is going to spontaneously combust if he looks too long.

“Can I help you?” Hot Neighbor growls.

“I brought you cake,” he says, holding up the plate. “Welcome.”

Hot Neighbor blinks, then looks down at the plate. “Those are pancakes,” he says.

“I didn’t have enough eggs.”

“What?”

“For the cake.”

Hot Neighbor stares at the plate for a moment before assessing Clint with a half-confused, half-annoyed gaze. “Are you drunk?”

“Possibly.” Clint shove the plate at him. “Take these.”

He takes the plate, expression unchanging. “I don’t understand,” he says.

Clint holds out his hand. “I’m Clint.”

“That’s not…” Hot Neighbor still looks confused. “Why are you here?”

“Eggs,” Clint says, gesturing at the plate. “No. Pancakes. What’s your name?” His phone rings, then, and Clint pulls it out of his pocket. “Excuse me,” he says, and answers. “Hey, Tash.”

“Oh lord,” she says immediately. “How drunk are you?”

“I finished the tequila.” He glances at his watch. “Hey, if I can’t call you at midnight, you can’t call me at four in the afternoon.”

“It _is_ midnight here, you moron. I’m making sure you didn’t burn the house down.”

“The house is _fine_ , Tasha. I’m talking to Hot Neighbor, can I call you back?” He hangs up and turns to the guy. “Sorry. That’s my friend Tasha. She thinks I’m gonna burn the house down.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I turned the griddle off, probably.”

“My name is Bucky?”

“What?”

“You called me—” He looks vaguely uncomfortable. “I’m Bucky.”

“I’m Clint,” Clint says, and holds his hand out. “Nice to meet you.”

Bucky stares at him for a moment. Clint remembers, then, that he only has one arm, and he winces. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Bucky says, and he sounds slightly amused.

At his feet, a little white cat winds around his ankles, meowing at him. Clint immediately kneels down, sticking his hand out. “Hi, kitty.”

“Alpine,” Bucky says. “She doesn’t like people.”

“Animals love me,” Clint says confidently, before overbalancing and falling on his ass. He nearly falls down the porch steps, but manages to catch himself at the last second. “Ow.”

Bucky eyes him. “What were you drinking?”

“Margaritas. You want one? I made you one but I kinda drank it already.” Clint holds his hand out for Alpine and makes soft cooing noises. “Hey, Alpine. Come here. Come say hi.”

“She’s not really—” Bucky stops as Alpine comes closer, sniffing at Clint’s hand before nudging under it. “Huh. That’s new.”

“Told you so,” Clint says, grinning at him. He gets up and dusts his pants off, then gestures at the pancakes. “You should eat them or fridge them.” He wobbles a bit, grabbing the railing for support.

Bucky is staring at him, still sounding torn between amused and annoyed. “You gonna make it home okay?”

“Oh sure.” Clint shrugs. “Hey, did you get furniture?”

“I—what?”

“You didn’t move in with any.”

“How do you know that?”

“I watched.” He glances at his house. “I should go check the…thing.”

“The griddle?”

Clint points finger guns at him. “That’s the one.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Don’t fall over.”

“I would never.” Clint starts down the stairs, making sure he’s got got a solid balance before moving the next one. “See ya,” he says, waving over his shoulder. He does trip twice while walking back across the street, but that’s more of a broken asphalt thing than a drunk thing. And he doesn’t _technically_ fall, so it’s all good.

Lucky greets him at the door, sniffing around him, and Clint pats him before pulling out his phone.

CB: hot neighbor is bucky

CB: silly name for a hot man

NR: Did you seriously make him a drunk cake?

CB: i made him drunk pancakes

CB: even better

CB: be jealous

NR: Is the griddle off?

CB: yes

NR: Send a picture.

NR: No more kitchen fires.

CB: that was ONE TIME

He sends her a picture anyway, and she sends a thumbs up back before telling him to drink more water.

“You’re not the boss of me,” he says, getting a glass and filling it. “Right, Lucky? We’re independent.”

Lucky barks.

“Damn straight,” Clint says, taking his water into the living room and collapsing on the couch. “Come on. Come Netflix with me.”

* * *

Clint’s not hungover the next day, but he’s definitely a little embarrassed. He doesn’t normally get _that_ drunk—combination of too much tequila and not enough food, he thinks. Still, he owns up to his weirdness, so when he comes back from a walk to see Bucky standing outside and staring at his house, he picks his way across the broken asphalt and stands by the mailbox. “Hi.”

Bucky turns, not looking surprised at all. “Hi,” he says. “You, uh, get things figured out yesterday?”

“Yeah.” Clint rubs a hand over his face, deciding he should probably shave later. Bucky’s got the same kind of scruffy look, but he manages to look attractive, and Clint’s pretty sure he just looks like a blond caveman. “Sorry. Lost it a little with that one.”

“A bit, yeah.”

He’s holding Alpine, Clint realizes, and it’s honestly too adorable for words. When she catches sight of Clint, she meows and wriggles, and Bucky sets her on the ground. She takes a couple hesitant steps towards Lucky, both of them tilting their heads and examining the other with interest.

“Lucky’s friendly,” Clint says preemptively. “Kind of a pushover, too.”

“Alpine’s the boss,” Bucky says. “So that’ll work out.”

They both watch tentatively as their animals meet, like parents unsure of how their kids will play together. But after a moment, Lucky flops over on the grass, and Alpine sniffs at his head before climbing on top of him and curling up.

“Huh,” Bucky says. “That’s…not quite what I was expecting.”

“That’s cute,” Clint says, and he takes a picture to send to Natasha. “Do we just…leave them there?”

“I guess?” Bucky looks back at his house again. “She kinda does her own thing. She’ll come in when she’s ready.”

Clint nods. “You gonna paint it?” he asks, gesturing to the house.

“Was thinking about it. Could use a coat. Probably re-do the porch, too.” He rubs a hand over his face.

“Cool.” Clint looks at the porch. “You want help?”

Almost immediately, Bucky’s face shutters. “I don’t need help.” He shifts a little bit, right arm almost unconsciously moving towards his left side.

“It’s not a pity thing,” Clint says, catching the movement. He points at his house. “That was a dump, when I bought it. Didn’t even have a door. I rebuilt the front porch, painted, did the gutters, fixed the windows, and now I’m working on the inside. I know a lot about fixing houses, and I’m bored. If you _want_ the help, I don’t mind. Or you can tell me to fuck off. That works too.”

Bucky is staring at him, a slightly incredulous look on his face. “Are you always like this?”

“Pretty much, yeah.” Clint shrugs. “I also have all the tools. You can borrow them.”

Bucky’s quiet for a long moment. Long enough that Clint sits down in the grass beside Lucky, fingers rubbing over his head. Alpine is purring quietly, and it’s such a peaceful moment that Clint half-wishes he could stay in it forever.

“Okay,” Bucky finally says. “I’d—I’d like that. You can help.”

“Cool,” Clint says, tilting his head up to look at him. _Fuck,_ he’s hot. “When do you want to get started?”

Bucky shrugs. “Right now?”

“Works for me,” Clint says, and he gets up.

* * *

Bucky turns out to be pretty handy himself—Clint’s sure there’s a pun in there, but he’s not going to make it—and working with him turns out to be easy as hell. Anything he doesn’t know, he learns fast, and he even teaches Clint a few things.

Also, he looks good all sweaty and smudged in dirt. Distractingly good. Clint manages most days to at least stay focused until he’s home, and _then_ he gives into all his dirty fantasies. He vaguely feels like a teenager again—stupid with hormones every time he looks at Bucky—but at least now he has the maturity to keep it to himself.

Mostly, anyway. He’s pretty sure Bucky catches him staring once or twice, but he never says anything, and Clint doesn’t either.

Still, Clint’s pretty sure he’s catching on, at least a little bit. There’s more confidence in the way he directs things, like he knows Clint likes watching him take charge, and the way he orders Clint around sometimes, telling him what to do with a hint of a knowing smirk—

Look, Clint’s not normally one for taking orders, but this—it’s really fucking hot, okay? He can’t help it. But he doesn’t want to ruin their budding friendship or anything, so they just kind of keep looking at each other, moving in this weird little orbit as they keep working on the house. Clint keeps going home to a cold shower every night, and poor Natasha gets to hear about all of it.

CB: he’s REALLY hot, Nat

NR: Yes, you’ve mentioned this.

CB: is it bad that I kind of want him to fuck me over a sawhorse or something

NR: No, what’s bad is that you keep telling ME.

NR: Why don’t you tell him that?

CB: I dunno

CB: how do I bring that up?

NR: You’re you. You’ll find a way.

CB: that’s…reassuring?

CB: when are you coming home anyway

CB: i miss you.

NR: Not for a while.

NR: So get it out of your system, because I don’t want to come home to you two banging on the roof or something.

CB: there’s an idea

NR: …I’m going to go do mission things now.

CB: okay

CB: stay safe, kick some ass

CB: love you

* * *

The whole summer might’ve gone like that, but then—

“I need the hammer,” Bucky calls from around the corner of the house. “Clint?”

“Yeah, coming.” He leans down and grabs the hammer, then walks around to the front.

And then he _drops_ it on his _foot,_ because Bucky is just kneeling there, on the porch, and he’s not—

Wearing—

A shirt—

Bucky stares down at him, a slightly confused look crossing his face. “You okay?”

Clint is aware, on some socially-conscious level, that he’s just staring at Bucky with his mouth slightly open. But he has no brainpower to do anything about it, because all he can see is muscles, and tanned skin, and glistening sweat and—

“Clint,” Bucky says. “Hey. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Clint says with all the eloquence he can muster—not a lot, really—and picks the hammer up. “Here. You—here.”

Bucky takes it. “You hit your head over there or something?”

“No,” Clint says, and his gaze flickers over to the sawhorse, then back to Bucky. “Nope. I’m—I’m good. It’s good. Everything is good.”

Bucky glances at the sawhorse. “Okay,” he says slowly, turning back to Clint. “I’m gonna…keep working.”

“Okay,” Clint echoes faintly.

He should go, he knows. He should go back to painting, and put this out of his head. Save it for the shower tonight. But he feels like he’s rooted to the spot, staring at Bucky, and he just—

“Clint,” Bucky says, drawing his eyes back up. There’s a tiny smirk on his face, and Clint suddenly has the sinking feeling that he _knows_ what Clint is thinking.

Not that he’s really hiding it—it’s pretty fucking obvious what’s going on. He might as well have a neon sign above his head blaring _FUCK ME._

“Yeah,” he says after a moment. “Sorry, I’m—”

“If you want something,” Bucky says, coming up a little on his knees, the motion accentuating every goddamn muscle he has, “then you should probably try asking for it.”

Oh.

_Oh._

Clint swallows, his mouth dry. “Uh.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything. He just waits, still smirking, hammer hanging loosely in his hand. Clint’s fevered brain comes up with something along the lines of _I want you to bang me,_ and he nearly starts laughing at the thought.

He forces it away and moves a little closer, stepping up the rickety stairs of the porch. “I…” He starts, then trails off as Bucky sets the hammer down and stands up. Clint’s taller, but that doesn’t matter. Not now. He feels minuscule under that smirk, unreasonably turned on and half-desperate for _anything_ —

“Well?” Bucky asks reaching forward. His hand cups Clint’s chin, thumb tracing over his lower lip. “Is there something you want?”

“Kiss me,” Clint manages. “Please.”

Bucky lowers his hand and grabs Clint’s shirt, slowly winding his fist into it. “Come here, then,” he says, voice low, and he tugs Clint forward.

Kissing Bucky is an _experience,_ one that he can’t believe he’s gone this long without trying. It’s heated, and perfect, and then it gets even better as Bucky turns them, pinning him against the front wall of the house. Clint’s not sure how Bucky knows that’s exactly what he wanted, but it’s incredible, and the noise he makes in response is completely involuntary.

Bucky grins against his mouth, fingers moving to curl in the belt loops of Clint’s jeans. “Thought so,” he murmurs. Clint would ask what that means, but then he’s being kissed again, and his thoughts kind of go out the window.

“I want,” he finally manages, gasping in a breath.

“You want,” Bucky echoes, tugging him forward only to push him back again. “What do you want, Clint?”

“Fuck me,” Clint says. “Right here. Please.”

“Okay,” Bucky says, and he kisses Clint again, pushing his hand against his chest. “Stay here.”

Clint nods—his knees are too weak to walk anywhere, really—and Bucky grins, then disappears into the house for a moment. He comes back out with a bottle of lube and a condom, setting both of them on the porch railing. “I know you were looking at that earlier,” he says, gesturing at the sawhorse. “But I’m not sure that’ll hold up.”

“That bodes well,” Clint says, grinning at him.

Bucky snorts. “Come here,” he says, grabbing Clint’s shirt again, tugging him over to the railing. “You know how long I’ve been waiting for this?”

“You were?” Clint leans over the railing as Bucky pushes him down, still so turned on he can barely see straight. Still, he’s a brat at heart, so he turns his head with a little smirk and says, “Should’ve said something.”

“I was waiting for you,” Bucky says, warm amusement in his voice. “You think I didn’t notice you staring at me for the past weeks? You’re not as subtle as you think, honey.”

Clint’s not normally one for pet names, but holy shit, _that_ does things to him. He makes a little whimpering noise and moves his hands to grab the railing, bracing himself as Bucky tugs his own pants down and out of the way before doing Clint’s. It’s almost hotter that they’re not even getting fully undressed, just enough to make it happen, and goddammit Clint’s gotta stop thinking or he’s going to come right the fuck now—

Bucky leans over him, pressing him to the railing. “You got a safe word? Just in case.”

Oh Jesus, _that_ ’s not helping either. “Red,” he manages.

“Got it. When’s the last time you got fucked, sweetheart?” 

“I—“ Fuck, Clint can’t think when Bucky’s touching him like that, one finger rubbing over his hole in a slow, teasing way. “Last night.”

Bucky’s hand pauses. “That so?” he asks. Not judgmental, just curious.

“I got stuff,” Clint says. “I was—in the shower—”

Bucky laughs. “Oh, I see how it is.” His hand moves away, and then there’s the slick sound of lube. Bucky’s finger disappears for a moment, only to return, wet and cool. “Taking care of yourself. That’s hot. What were you thinking about?”

“You,” Clint says, pushing back against him.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah—“ He groans as Bucky’s finger slips into him, clenching around it. Bucky echoes him, slowly pulling it back out a tiny bit. “I was—you keep—you’re really—”

“You’re cute,” Bucky says, sounding entertained as hell, and Clint blushes. “You do that a lot? Finish up here, then go home and get yourself off?”

“Yes,” Clint gasps as he adds a second one. “ _Yes_.”

“Tell me more,” he says, slowly twisting his fingers.

Clint shakes his head, pressing his head down into the railing. God, he’s glad they finished this last week. Splinters would _suck_ right now.

“Tell me,” Bucky says again, leaning forward. “Or else I’m doing this and nothing else.”

“Won’t get you off either,” Clint shoots back.

“I can take care of myself.”

“Maybe I’ll just take care of _myself_.”

“Yeah?” Clint can _hear_ the grin in his voice. “No one’s stopping you, sweetheart.”

He’s right. But there’s a tiny little part of him that won’t let go, that won’t pry his hand up. Like he’s waiting for permission or something, like he’s going to disappoint Bucky if he does it.

“That’s what I thought,” Bucky says, a rumble of a laugh in his chest. “So. Tell me. What do you think about? When you’ve got a hand around that pretty cock, and you’re standing there alone, wishing I was touching you.”

Clint makes a high pitched noise. “This,” he says. “I think about this.” He pushes back onto Bucky’s fingers, gasping a little as his picks his head up. “I—I think about you. Doing this. Fucking me on everything we’ve— _fuck_ —fixed this whole damn summer.” He can’t think, the words jumbled. “I want—I wanna suck your dick on the stepladder or something.”

Bucky chuckles. “I’ll keep it in mind,” he says, and then he’s pulling his fingers out, leaving Clint to clench down around nothing. There’s a crinkle of foil, and a moment later, the blunt head of his cock is nudging against Clint’s hole, then slowly—too slowly—pressing into him. “Fuck, you feel good.”

Clint makes a vague noise of agreement, gripping the railing tightly. “More. Please.”

“Getting there,” Bucky says, rubbing a soothing hand up his back. “You’re doing so good, though.” He rubs a little more. “Bet you mark up real nice too.”

“I do,” Clint says. “And you can. If you want.”

Bucky pauses, and then cracks his hand down onto Clint’s ass, hard enough to leave a handprint. Clint moans, the sharp pain of it absolutely _perfect_ with his storm of other emotions.

“I knew it,” Bucky says, doing it again on the other side. “God, you’re so fucking pretty.”

Clint flushes red. “Fuck me,” he says, pushing his hips back.

“I am fucking you,” Bucky says. “Also telling you how pretty you are. I can do both.” He settles his hand on Clint’s hip, holding him steady. “Don’t move your hands.”

“Wasn’t gonna,” Clint says, because there’s a little part of him that’s sure he’s going to need to hold on for this, and _fuck_ he’s excited for it.

“Good boy,” Bucky says, and then Clint kind of loses what happens after that, because Bucky fucks into him _hard,_ and he forgets what words are.

“God,” he manages, fingers curling into the wood. “Bucky—”

“Oh baby,” Bucky murmurs, and he sounds sympathetic, but then he does it again, and again, and again. “You can take it.”

Clint _can_ take it, but he thinks it might kill him in the process. _Worth it._ He chokes out an agreement, and braces himself against the railing.

Bucky keeps fucking him, fingers bruising against Clint’s hips, little spots of pain that only add to the pleasure of the rest of it. Then he lets go, his hand coming up to wind into Clint’s hair, and he gives it a little tug.

Clint makes the most embarrassing sound he’s ever made in his _life_ , and arches his back. “More,” he demands, loud and needy. “More, _please_ —”

“Oh,” Bucky says, sounding surprised, voice rough with arousal. “More?” He grabs Clint’s hair tighter, pulls a little harder, tugging him upright. “Like this?”

Clint’s spine melts like butter, and he makes another needy sound. “ _Yes_.”

“Okay,” Bucky says, grinding into him just right, making sparks flash across his vision. “I got you, sweetheart. You’re doing so good for me. Look so pretty in this sunlight.”

_We’re outside,_ Clint thinks hazily, and its not like anyone’s going to come down this road, but they _could,_ and that thought makes him hot all over.

“That’s it,” Bucky mutters, and he lets go, lowering his hand to wrap it around Clint’s dick. “That feel good?”

“Yes,” Clint gasps, not sure if he wants to push forward onto Bucky’s hand or back onto his dick. He wants both things, wants _everything,_ and it’s too much, too much and also _not enough_ —

“I got you,” Bucky says, and his voice is soothing, but the way he’s fucking into Clint is almost mean, and the juxtaposition of the two is driving him _insane_. He blinks back tears, forcing himself to focus on the wood underneath his hands, and maintaining his position, because the second he loses concentration he’s going to fall over—

“Sounding pretty desperate there,” Bucky says, voice low, and Clint realizes then that he’s making sharp little sounds, high-pitched and needy. Bucky leans forward a little. “Oh, you look it, too. You cryin’ for me, sweetheart?”

Clint lets out a sob that’s as good as a yes.

“Love it,” Bucky says, a wicked delight in his voice. “You’re pretty like that.”

Another sob, and Clint can’t even hide it. “Please,” he manages, blinking back tears. “Bucky—”

“I hear you,” Bucky tells him, almost pleasant sounding. “You gonna come for me?”

“Can I?” he gasps.

“ _Good_ boy, asking for it.” Bucky thumbs over the head of his cock, then starts jerking him off in short strokes, timing it with his thrusts, and Clint just about goes to pieces under him. “You can. I want you to. Want you to come on my dick, just like this, you sound so fuckin’ sweet for me—”

He says more, but Clint’s not listening. He’s lost in a wave of sensation, coming with a sharp intensity, the pleasure so overwhelming he feels like he’s drowning in it. His legs wobble, and he nearly collapses before Bucky manages to grab him, one strong arm wrapping around his waist.

It takes him a _long_ time to put himself back together. He’d be embarrassed about it, but he’s so worn out, still pleasantly floating among the stars, and he doesn’t have the energy.

Eventually, though, he manages to pull some semblance of coherent thoughts together, and raises his head. “Jesus,” he says hoarsely. His throat’s sore, like he’s been yelling. Maybe he has. He’s got no idea. “Bucky?”

“Right here,” Bucky says. He’s still pressed against Clint, still holding him up.

“Did you—”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, face tucked into Clint’s shoulder. “Right after you did.”

“Good.” Clint takes a shaky breath. “That—that was _so_ good.”

“Mmhmm.” Bucky presses a soft kiss to his neck. “You gonna fall over if I let go?”

“Maybe,” Clint admits, and there’s a soft chuckle in response. “Can’t feel my legs.”

“That’s how you know you did it right.” Bucky kisses him again. “That was okay, then? Not…too much?”

“That was the perfect amount,” Clint reassures him, twisting a little to chase his mouth. “So fucking good, holy shit.”

Bucky nods against him, then straightens up a little, sliding out of him. “Good,” he says softly. “Okay. Come on. Come with me.”

Clint pries himself off the railing. He lets Bucky lead him inside the house, lets him clean them both up. Then they go back out, and look at their tools and other things left in disarray around the yard.

“Guess we should get back to work,” Bucky says after a moment, and Clint nods. There’s still a charged electricity sparking between them, and he wonders if Bucky can feel it too. He thought it might be awkward afterwards, but it’s not at all. There’s just a thrumming anticipation of more to come, and a sated feeling from what’s already happened, and he knows he’s never going to look at the railing quite the same way again.

“Guess we should,” he says, and pulls his phone out, flicking open his messages as Bucky turns around, picking up the saw he was using earlier.

CB: you were right

CB: should’ve talked to him about it

CB: would’ve been faster

NR: Did you fuck him?

CB: He fucked me. Over a railing. It was epic.

NR: Good.

NR: Now you’ll stop bothering me about it, right?

CB: have you met me, woman

NR: …fair.

NR: I’ll be home Saturday.

NR: If he fucks things up between now and then, I’ll kill him with his own power tools. :)

CB: duly noted

CB: I’ll let him know

He tucks the phone back in his pocket and picks up the hammer from the steps. “You already nailed me,” he says, handing it to Bucky. “But do you still need this?”

“Oh god,” Bucky says, rolling his eyes. “Is this going to be my life now? Shitty carpentry sex jokes?”

“Yeah,” Clint says, grinning at him. “You have regrets?”

“Nope,” Bucky says, taking the hammer from him, and grinning right back. “Not a single one.”

**Author's Note:**

> Extra thanks to Harishe for the title <3 
> 
> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)


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